


The system only dreams in total darkness

by kaixo (ballpoint)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: FIFA World Cup, Gen, Jealousy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-22 21:16:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11975193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/kaixo
Summary: At the beginning of the season they speak in whispers;  to say things aloud will cause the world to shake.





	The system only dreams in total darkness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Matrioska](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Matrioska/gifts).



“Maybe, I listen more than you think,” Dele said, punching his fists through the sleeves of his top. The new Nike kit with its striking ultramarine blue still new to Eric, although they’d been training for it for the past month now. 

After the win over Newcastle (not the 5-1 Eric wanted, mind, a declaration of intent, a clap back to two seasons ago but a win was a win), them now queuing for the charter flight taking them from Newcastle to London at Newcastle International Airport. Kyle Walker-Peters’ face still bright as a torch in the darkness, his smile bashful as Moussa, Toby and Jan were taking the piss out of the lad.

Eric didn’t answer, catching the air hostess’ eye as she scanned her clipboard for their names. She briefly returned his smile, her own cool and polished, before turning her attention back to her colleague, both of them speaking in whispers. 

Whispers. 

That seemed to be the theme of this season so far. Eric thought. Whispers, things said in hushed tones behind hands held over mouths, mutterings of thoughts that you daren’t voice too loudly. The verbal equivalent of playing Jenga sticks, pulling at thoughts and utterings carefully, so that you didn’t bring the whole bloody thing down around your hands and ears and lose the entire plot while you were at it. 

Kyle Walker- not Kyle Walker Peters- had been the start of it. 

Losing Kyle Walker had been a blow leading up into the new season. 

On the cusp of the game with Newcastle, Pochettino worked them harder; subtle adjustments to their shape and form. Standing off on the edge of the practice pitch with Jesús and Micky, his arms folded across his chest, his eyes squints of deep thought. Not saying anything to anyone, as he broke away, pacing along the sidelines. Sebastian tagging along beside him, less his son and more his shadow. 

Three sharp spurts of Micky’s whistle, signaling everyone to stop for a break. Tugging off his bib gratefully, Eric half jogged to the end of the pitch, slowing down when he saw Kevin and Sonny near to the door of the building leading into the rooms, in the direction of the cafeteria. 

Another whisper. It had been widely known that Kevin was another one to leave in the window. 

_“I still want to stay and play in England,”_ Kevin said to Eric on the Wednesday of the week before. 

Eric sought Kevin out, not knowing exactly what to offer ... apologies? Commiserations? What was there to say, trying to comfort a player when his face just didn’t fit the coach’s portrait of what he wanted the team to be? Eric had been there before, three seasons ago, before escaping to Spurs, so he understood Kevin’s position, but it was another murmur. If you said it too loudly, the media’s ears would pick it up, and the whispers would become a roar to the point of reverb and it helped no one. 

Kevin waved off Eric’s concern with a rueful smile. “Everything has an end, except for a sausage, that has two, right?”

 _It’s okay to feel fucked off, Eric wanted to say_. To offer something other than the empty _sorry, but you know how it is. Your next club will be great. At least you’re in England, and their football structure is organised even though everything else is crazy? I--_

But he didn’t say it because no one wanted pity, and it didn’t help anything. Eric could only return a smile, his own dimmed with sympathy. “Yeah, I guess so.”

This had been hard to explain to Dele, even right now, in the cafeteria, as both of them sat down and started eating. 

“He’s a good player, and a good lad, it’ll be sad to see him go,” Dele said, spearing his fork into his risotto. “Sonny is gutted.”

“Yeah, but -” Eric started, waving his fork in the air. “You can argue that he didn’t get a fair shot.”

“Like the gaffer says, this is football,” Dele said with the smooth confidence of one whose face would always fit a team’s profile because a manager would always try and make it fit. “Kevin’s a good player, it’s not as if he won’t make it,” Dele lifted his gaze to Eric’s. “He’s already in a top league- that’s half the battle, in truth.”

Strangely annoyed at the conversation and not knowing why, Eric tucked into his own food and didn’t speak for the rest of the meal.

*** 

“First match, Newcastle,” Christian said in that thoughtful way of his. They’d arrived at the airport, and now on the coach towards their hotel the night before the game. Somehow, Eric found himself seated beside Christian and Christian was no hardship to be a seatmate with. Calm to the point of catatonic, he was a welcome contrast to Dele, who always seemed to tremble as if at the end of a leash before matches, always eager to show what he could do.

“Yeah,” Eric stretched the word out. 

“Not that the first match result of the season is how we’ll end,” Christian mused as he scrolled through his social media apps, lifting his eyes to Eric from his phone, “so you shouldn’t worry much.”

Eric raised an eyebrow. “I’m not worried.”

Christian shrugged, looking out the window, seeing the detached and semi-detached houses that made up the outskirts of Newcastle, along with stripes of green spaces. “You shouldn’t be.”

Dele and Tripps were roommates this time around, leaving Eric with Vincent. 

Pochettino and his staff went out of their way to avoid cliques in the squad and did this by rotating seating and room arrangements. Eric understood the psychology behind it; because although you didn’t have to be _friends_ and live in each other’s pockets and braid each other’s hair, it helped if everyone on the squad felt at ease with each other. 

Eric didn’t mind, honestly. He got on with everyone on the squad in varying degrees, and Vincent was no exception. 

The night before matches, Pochettino insisted on rest. On the road, when Pochettino had direct control, he ran the rule like a drill sergeant. 

Lights out by nine, rest just as important as nutrition and recovery. 

Eric drifted asleep, only to find himself awake in their hotel room a few hours later, seeing Vincent seated in the only chair in the room staring out the window, the lights of the city in the distance. 

“It’s late,” Eric opened an eye, the room shrouded in twilight. Reaching for the phone on his bedside table, he looked at the time on his screen. Winced. “You should be asleep.”

“What’s the point? It’s not as if I’ll play.” Vincent shot him a baleful look, his arm resting across the top of the crest rail of the back of the chair. Eric wanted to drag the blanket over his head and drift back to sleep. 

“You never know,” Eric said, “Harry can never find a goal in August. He has yet to do so for the past three seasons. Tomorrow might be your-”

“Don’t.” Vincent cut in, his voice shaking, as he shot a brief glance in Eric’s direction. “Please don’t.” 

“Vince-”

“I know you’re trying to be helpful,” Vincent started, “I know you mean well, really. Everyone means well, especially with _everything_ what everyone says about me- which makes it worse.”

“It takes time to settle into a new league,” Eric said, before pressing a hand to his face. Jesus, the clichés just kept coming. Vincent another player plagued by whispers, most damning - _he’s from AZ Alkmaar. You what? Exactly, not Ajax, innit. What did Spurs’ expect? Ohh, the lad’s a trier, but he isn’t going to make it._

However, Eric knew that the pitying ones were the worst. The well meaning excuses, just like the ones he trotted out. 

_What do you want me to say?_ Eric wanted to ask. 

Not before Vincent blindsided him with a salvo of his own. 

“It is easy for you to say that, you know. You know the club and the manager will block any sale for you. I mean, they already have.”

Ah yes, Eric’s name now drawing whispers on his own. 

Dele’s links away were tenuous- for now- whereas interest in Eric had been concrete, the idea of Mourinho and Manchester United tempting and heady. 

The fact that he couldn’t --- Eric pushed the thought away. He looked at Vincent, and Vincent stared right back. Vincent wasn’t one to back down from anything, Eric knew, no matter how vulnerable it left him- and arguing about their positions on the team right now - left him wide open to whatever Eric wanted to say under the guise of banter. 

“Don’t stay up _too_ late,” Eric said at last, after a humming silence. He tugged the bedclothes over his head, as he willed himself to sleep.

*** 

Unlike most of the others, Eric didn’t mind Sunday as match days. The routine always the same for away matches. You showed up, suited up. Tights under shorts -the tights the same colour and preferably the same brand- as the kit provider. Shin pads under knee high socks, feet slipped into boots, laces tight enough across the instep to keep them on through a ninety-minute match.

Club shirt tugged and smoothed over the torso.

A quick pep talk in the space outside of the changing room- although Pochettino didn’t say much today- and they shifted, got ready to queue to go outside into the open passage where the television cameras were, ready to beam the match out to the rest of the world. 

At odd times, the realisation would flash through Eric, rooting him to the spot like a thunderbolt. 

The world ready to watch and dissect the match in real time, their reactions captured in hashtags, key moments expressed in gifs out of context, missives shooting from trigger Twitter fingers. The panopticon of social media reacting and distorting every single action and what it meant. 

Right, this was _not_ the time to think about this, Dier, Eric scolded himself.  
Shaking his head to and fro as if he were one of his dogs bounding out of the drink. He willed himself in the now, to be mindful. To observe players milling around him, everyone trading high fives or hugs of good luck, depending on how physically comfortable each one felt towards their respective teammate. 

Eric trading a hug with Toby and Jan because they were in defense today, Toby shifting his weight from one leg to the other, keyed up like a horse in its bay before the starting gates. 

A brief high five with Moussa, and now it would usually be Dele, with a crack about Eric’s form. Or face. 

Dele- Eric realised with a start- wasn’t here. 

Scanning the queue, and not seeing Dele or KWP, he shook his head. 

Glanced at the countdown clock, noting they still had six minutes before broadcast time (but two minutes in their own time to get into position). 

Taking a chance, because Pochettino and the rest of the staff were already outside getting the talk of match conduct from the fourth official, Eric briskly jogged towards the changing room, not half surprised to see Dele and Kyle, standing off to the corner, Dele’s hands sketching pictures in the air, and Kyle looking up at Dele - half due to Dele being head and shoulders taller than him and half due to the aura of Dele being an old hand on the first team. 

“Mate,” Dele said throwing his arm around Kyle’s shoulders as they made to walk out, their studs echoing on the floor’s slick surface. “Just remember, we need you out there today, yeah? Everything else is -- it doesn’t matter.”

“Okay,” Kyle shook his head, doing that smile he did when he was half scared but resolute about taking on the next task Pochettino set in front of him. “Right.” 

“We need to go now, before the gaffer kills us,” Dele started, before mimicking the quintessential American sportscaster voice, all jaunty inflection and nasal notes, taking in the rest of the changing room with the gesture of a magician making doves appear from nowhere. “ _It’s showtime_!”

Yeah, Eric half nodded to himself as he strode in the direction he’d just come from. 

It was. 

***

Now, Eric on the plane, camera phone in hand. Everyone’s mood on the plane giddy with relief for three points. Glad for the fact that Newcastle wasn’t another hoodoo because they were already beset by one. Their home games at Wembley. 

Across from his seat, Kyle looking at his MOTM award, stroking it as if it were a priceless artifact, his fingers tracing the outline of the strange rectangular statue. 

“KWP did alright, didn’t he?” 

Eric slid a look at Dele. 

After three rounds of _paper, rock and scissors_ , Dele got dibs on the window seat, and already half way to dozing off with his duck billed cap half way down his face, and those odd apple headphones sticking out of his ears like white oversized stubby matchsticks. 

“Newcastle were a poor side,” Eric murmured, apropos of nothing, tapping his fingers against the back of his phone. 

“You can only play the teams in front of you,” Dele quipped, before pushing at the underside of the visor of his cap with his index finger, his eyes scanning Eric’s face, and Eric narrowed his eyes, half bracing himself for what was coming. “You’re not going to not take the piss out of him, are you?”

That was not what Eric expected at all. 

“It’s his first game, and he’s been brilliant. Considering my first game for Spurs I came on as a sub, he got a whole ninety minutes.”

“Jealous?” Eric shot back, turning his phone to landscape and switching on the camera in Kyle’s direction.

“Oh yeah,” the answer tripped off Dele’s tongue with ease, his eyes warm and soft, “always.”

*** 

“Maybe, I listen more than you think,” Dele said, raising his head, looking up at the sky.

Eric had heard those words before. 

The last time he heard them had been in the context of a win. A loss and a draw in quick succession to Chelsea and Burnley respectively, and now on duty for England for international break - the meaning of those words less teasing and more ominous. 

After training and being satisfied at general points of contact, Southgate gave permission for down time. 

For his personal time, Eric chose to find the places which were used as backdrops for _The Game of Thrones_. Valletta, the capital city of Malta, boasting straw coloured stone buildings and narrow winding cobbled streets underfoot. Even in late August with the heat, it was easy to escape in the cool shadows and hallways. 

Valletta, modern enough for him to enjoy roaming access on his phone, and the ability to Whatsapp with _everyone_ , but with so much atmosphere and historical fantasy dancing around him, he half expected Ned Stark to step out of one of the side doors and onto the side streets of the King’s Landing. 

“What do you mean?” Eric asked as he angled his phone to get a shot. A study in the texture of sun faded ochre coloured stone walls, with a wooden window painted in a toy like bright green. Its shutters thrown open, showing its gauzy curtains, with the faint image of a TV fastened on to the wall inside, like a moving picture. The photo couldn’t be in stark black and white, just colour. 

An image which needed no filter and no commentary. 

“I deleted the Insta story.” 

“Ah,” Eric said, because he knew that would be another layer of feverish theories by all and sundry, who’d take ninety seconds of errant social media and make feverish blog posts about it ranging on for days at a time. 

“You’re not going to be like this _all_ season, are you?”

Eric didn’t answer, slipping his phone into his pocket as he walked on ahead. He knew he was being difficult, but damn it, he had the right to be. He - 

“There’s a restaurant not too far from here,” Dele glanced at the screen of his own phone. “It’s not _too_ expensive, and isn’t one for reservations. We can have a bit of a munch there.”

***

Dele hadn’t been lying, as they found themselves seated at a table with servings of _hobz biz-zejt'_ , bread rubbed with tomato sauce and dipped in oil and served alongside _gbejna_ , a small round cheese drizzled with black pepper and vinegar, presented on a rustic platter, resting on the scarred wooden table surface between them.

They’d come in the quiet window of trade. Not too noisy where the service was slow and you couldn’t hear over the din. Not too quiet where they were the only ones in the room either, their table tucked into the corner, the ambient light dim. Not in the way of romance, but in the way of old narrow buildings, with relatively spare spaces to expand outwards, so you could only build upwards, with high ceilings which were almost church like. 

The windows thrown open, allowing the breezes to waft in, even though the atmosphere felt still and warm. 

If he squinted at the window in the distance behind Dele, Eric thought, he’d just about see the ribbon of sea on the horizon of the cloudless blue sky. 

Their waiter slid their drinks in front of them before slipping away. Dele took a sip of his through its straw, presented in a glass and the colour of amber. Making a face, he pushed it to one side. 

“Oh wow,” Dele blinked. “I need a minute.”

Eric took a sip of his, enjoying the odd flavours of rose water and cloves steeped in the taste of strong roast coffee. He’d be wired all night, but the depth of the cloves with the delicate perfume of rose water rounding out the hearty acrid taste of the coffee -- it might be worth it. 

Half way to relaxed, he leaned into the back of the seat, letting it take all his weight. 

In deference to the rules of the restaurant, Dele took his cap off, running his fingers through his hair, trying to fluff it into place. In deference to the weather, Dele wore short sleeves, the ink of his tattoos snaking out on and along his arms. 

Dele’s tattoos one of the many changes in Dele Eric had seen, and experienced, having a front seat to his friend’s life. The commercials, the adulation, and increasing media attention. Dele took it in his stride, with a mix of dry amusement and a huge dollop of self-possession. 

“What are you drinking?”

“ _Maltese Kafe_ \- and it’s delicious. Want some?”

Dele waved the offer away, as he eyed his own drink with suspicion. “Naaaah, let me try this again.”

“What’s that, then?” Eric indicated to Dele’s drink with a lazy wave of his finger. 

“ _Kinnie_ ,” Dele sucked at the straw again, face in a thoughtful frown, seemingly torn between whether to stick with the odd tasting drink or order something else with a familiar flavour. “It’s a soft drink with a kick,” he recited the drink’s description from the drinks’ menu they’d looked at earlier. “Truth in advertising, I guess.”

“I guess,” Eric said, poking at the cheese with the tines of his fork. He wasn’t hungry, although they’d ordered lunch. 

“When we get back, the transfer window will be closed.”

“Hmm.”

“It’s been crazy.” 

Hadn’t it just, Eric thought, the sale of Neymar from Barcelona to PSG for _fortunes_. The amount quoted enough to roll out the defibrillator, kick starting the heart into beating again. 

“Hmm.”

“I’m sorry that you didn’t get your move away. But I’m not sorry that you’re still here.”

Eric flinched as if struck, his cheeks flushed with the heat of annoyance, his fingers tightening around the handle of his fork. He didn’t say a word, sticking his fork into one of the small round cheeses and popping it in his mouth. If he ate, he wouldn’t have to speak. At least, not yet. 

Swallowing the last bits of his cheese, Eric sipped at his coffee, the flavours now tasting of nothing in his mouth. 

It was easier leaving things unsaid, to stuff disappointment into the corners of the heart and ignoring it for now. To keep calm and carry on as normal, because to give vent to everything would be the equivalent of a shockwave devastating everything they’d built so far in three seasons. Danny’s interview to a popular tabloid had already done its bit, blindsiding the club and causing cracks to sprout in their metaphorical defence. 

“Dele-”

“Give over, Eric,” Dele said, toying with the bit of bread on his plate. “You had genuine interest from one of the winningest coaches in the world, with one of the biggest teams in the world. You have a right to be mad at Kyle leaving, but --- you would have left too.”

Eric’s head snapped up at the comment as he glared at his friend. The shock of anger flooding through his blood so abrupt and strong, it hit him with a buzz. Intoxicated with malevolent glee, Eric spat the question at Dele: “Jealous?”

This time around, Dele’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Always.”

***

_“Walker is a traitor,” Eric drawled._

_“No I’m not! It was okay when you wanted to go to United.”_

_Stonesy, forever the shit stirrer, had to put his tuppence worth in. “Salty.”_

_Dele’s mouth dropped open in a pop of surprise as he quickly shut his Instagram stream down, and put his phone away. The silence too sudden, too long, the drone of the plane's engines too loud._

On second thought, that cup of coffee had been a bad idea. At least it was the night before the night of the match. 

Yeah, and that didn’t even make sense in his head. 

For all of the England’s FA’s shortcomings in well- a fair few things- they really treated their players right when it came to accommodation. Eric slipped his room key card in his pocket, beside his phone, making his way from his room towards the grounds of the complex. A piece of green to the side if the players wanted to do a casual game of kickball, the idea that they had a right to enjoy their downtime. 

Like... Walker and Stonesy enjoying their downtime on the green right now. Dressed down in dark blue jogging bottoms and light blue tops, their dancing shadows lengthening on the grass. 

The sky still bright above them, its blue tinged with streaks of purple and pink, as Stonesy and Walks kicked a ball between themselves, torquing their bodies into shapes and jumps in order to intercept and control the ball. 

The aim of the game seemed to be that anyone who touched the ball twice in transition dropped a point. 

Stonsey’s fluid swearing made Eric nod and laugh. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake-”

“Stonsey, giving up?” Kyle goaded, showing off with keep ups, ball bouncing from one instep to the other. From instep to knee. Kyle’s gold tooth glinting in the light every time he grinned, and considering Stonsey’s lack of form, it seemed to be often. 

“No, you -” Stonsey cut off, the ball rocketing towards him from Kyle’s foot, Stonsey chesting it down, shifting the angle of his body to get his foot in line with the ball, the gleam in his eye as he skied the ball in Eric’s direction. 

“Come on lad,” Stonsey shouted, “give it a go.”

Grinning, and moving his body into correct positioning, Eric welcomed the ball.

***

They played until the sky darkened around them, the lights on the edge of the field triggered into life by the fall of dusk, throwing white light around them, their shadows long on the strip of green.

Game over now, Eric tugged his shirt off, his torso sleek with perspiration. He absently mopped at his face, which was all sorts of stupid, wincing at the stink of his own sweat. 

“Here,” Kyle said, throwing a T-shirt in Eric’s direction. Eric wondered at this magic, Kyle throwing plain white tees out of thin air, before Eric realized Kyle and Stonsey had a plan for playing and post-playing compared to him just showing up. They already had an oversized duffel bag filled with fresh t-shirts and post sports beverages pitched just so in a corner of the field. 

“Thanks,” Eric grabbed the shirt from its arc in the air, tugging it over his head and torso, and nothing felt as great as a fresh shirt after a taxing workout. “S’alright, it’s what traitors do, innit?”

 _Fuck’s sake._

Eric deserved that. He shook his head, his hands tightening at the edge of his shirt. He looked at Kyle, half expecting recrimination for the throwaway comment they’d had two days ago, because giving voice to things only made them real and painful, but Kyle only smiled and shook his head. 

“I’m a wanker,” Eric admitted, throwing his hands up in acknowledgement of his own misstep. “Walks-”

“Honestly, mate. I know, it’s fine. Sterling, Stonsey and I are forming a group here, open to all newcomers. _Traitors R Us._ ”

At Eric’s blank look, and Stonsey’s muffled laugh, Kyle raised his hands to shoulder height in a show of surrender. “Okay, okay, the name is a bit dodgy yeah?” Kyle turned to glare at Stonesy, who only laughed a bit harder. Rolling his eyes, Kyle muttered, _wasteman_ , before refocusing his attention on Eric. “Ignore him. We’re working on it, fam. When you’re ready-”

Eric laughed, waving it off. Not wanting to give any more voice to things, because he’d done enough already in ninety seconds on Dele’s Instagram account. 

“I -” he rolled his shoulders, allowing his words to trail off into nothing. “Listen, I can’t stay, I have to go and make a call.”

Stonsey waved him off. “See you tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Eric turned and started to move away, before stopping in his tracks and jogging back towards his friends, grabbing Kyle in a one-armed hug/headlock hybrid. 

“Muppet,” Kyle said affectionately, the unspoken apology accepted, Eric knew, feeling Kyle’s arm squeezing halfway between Eric’s waist and armpit. When they broke away, he looked at Eric, eyes, and voice sober. “There’s nowt wrong with ambition, you know? ”

“I know,” Eric nodded, chastened, taking in Kyle and Stonsey, both of them now Manchester City players, after their prolonged extraction from Tottenham and Everton respectively. They stood together, shoulder to shoulder, brothers in arms, relaxed around each other. 

If things had worked out, he too would have been in the North of England, on the red side of the United to the blue of Man City, and no matter what the ‘noisy neighbours’ (thank you, Sir Alex) tried to say, Manchester was always red. 

“I know,” he repeated, before turning to leave, and didn’t look back this time.

***

“How do I think our season is shaping up?” Smalling chewed his lower lip, fingers rubbing at his chin in thought. Breakfast the next morning, and players floated in and around the tables, bearing plates from the breakfast buffet, drifting like stalks from a dandelion in the wind before settling at rest at each table.

The sun stormed indoors, sweeping the shadows away in its glory. Its beams jumped, rolled and bounced everywhere, sunlight strong enough to sneak into Eric’s bed, its heat and light driving him out of his bed into the shower and out of his room. 

Eric arrived early, refreshed from exercise and a deep sleep the night before, now wondering what on earth made him choose oatmeal with fruits and almond milk. It looked good in the bowl, a seasonal burst of fruit in riotous colours of purple and orange against the neutral tones of oatmeal and chia. 

Instagrammable sure, but the flavours were blah at best. Might it have been the chia seeds? He wasn’t so sure, because chia seeds weren’t supposed to taste of anything. 

Rash’s chin resting in the palm of his hand, eyes half closed, elbow on the table with a steaming cup of tea in front of him. He wasn’t a morning person, his smiles reading as shy, when everyone knew that he was still half asleep and willing himself to wake up. Jesse rolled his shoulder into Rash’s causing Rash to grump, “Yo man, stop it, can’t you see I’m awake?”

“Ignore him,” Jesse grinned, energizer bunny bright to Rashford’s morning stupor. “He’s the only one I know who can sleep with his eyes open. Like...” he paused, eyes sliding to the left and upwards, absently scratching the space behind his ear with his index finger. “It’s so weird, you know? Rash is soooo weird.”

“Jesse,” Smalling tittered, slitting his eyes at his teammate. “Focus, blud.”

In another timeline, Eric knew, these would have been a few of his teammates. Jesse, Rash and Smalls were friendly guys, especially Jesse. If you didn’t know that they were footballers, you’d have just thought they were blokes who were into music, distracted by fashion and did college on the side. 

“I don’t know,” Smalling answered finally with a smile, “we’re in Champions’ League, and we got some good players in, like Lukaku, Lindelhof, and Matic.”

_Hmm._

“We have a chance, yeah?” Jesse jabbered on. “I mean, last season we got three trophies, but you know, we want more.”

“Yeah,” Eric agreed, stuffing a generous spoonful of oatmeal and fruit into his gob, preventing himself from speaking, jealousy thisclose to making him choke. 

_Of course._

***

“Blimey, I swear we spend half our lives on aeroplanes.”

Eric raised an eyebrow as he looked in Harry’s direction. Harry wasn’t one to grouse about the little things like this, but that was an international break for you. You travelled, but spent most of the time training, or playing, or in the process of travelling. Sure, on social media it seemed glamorous, hopping from country to country, but the reality was pretty mundane, dragging your carry on behind you, and willing your time away in airports and on the planes. 

A little over ten hours later, they were leaving with three points, after making hard work of it for themselves. Malta had set up tight as a drum in the first half, with their keeper playing out of their skin. England came good in the second half, with Rashford’s trickery and pace that started to create spaces, drawing the defenders to open up capitalise on scoring chances. 

Rashford fell asleep as soon as his bum hit the seat; his head lolling against Jesse’s shoulder, and Jesse only rolled his eyes. That sort of action where everyone knew as much as he pretended to be put upon by Rash’s actions, he liked being the support in this part of their double act, really. 

It had been twenty-four hours since he and Dele last spoke. 

Eric had taken great pains to avoid Dele because Dele was a sure thing on the first XI against Malta, along with H and Walks, and Eric knew better than to disturb him. 

That excuse didn’t even sound convincing to himself, honestly. 

With a huff, Eric moved down the corridor, searching for a seat on the plane. No to Southgate who was already deep in conversation with his second in command, doing a post-mortem on the game the night before, no doubt. 

Kyle and Stonsey were already seated, headphones over their ears. 

Hah, a window seat. Eric brightened, because every time he travelled with Dele, they’d scuffle dibs on the window seat. Or play _paper rock scissors_ until someone would be savvy enough to call time by tossing a coin and letting them call heads or tails. 

His, all his. 

The plane filling up now, Eric’s headphones on, listening to J Balvin’s _Mi Gente_ on his phone, fingers tapping to the beat on his thighs, looking outside through the plane window, seeing the grey of the tarmac and the scrub of grass. Oddly content, with his window seat and the hum of people in the background as they went about their activities you did before taking off, Eric didn’t even glance in the direction of the gangway as he felt someone slip into the seat beside him. 

“I come in peace,” Dele raised his hand in salute. “I don’t even have my phone on this time around.”

Eric didn’t say a word, just leaned back in his seat, all his attention on Dele. He’d really changed a fair bit in the almost three years they’d known each other. His face shorn of any sort of baby fat, all angles and sharp cheekbones. Over the summer, he’d gotten tan, skin deepening towards siena than his normal fawn colour. He’d also stopped shooting upwards, his height topping off at 1.9 metres, and started filling out in his shoulders, arms and torso, although he’d always be greyhound lean. 

Dele’s smile didn’t falter, despite the weight of Eric’s stare, but he raised his eyebrows, saying, “If you’re having a moment with this setup...” Dele circled their area of the plane with his index finger, “I can leave you to it. I saw some seats further back.”

“No,” Eric shook his head. “Don’t go.”

Dele wasn’t one to ask, _Are you sure?_

He just busied himself fastening his seatbelt as the lights directed them to do, and settled in.

***

“Dele,” Eric began, as soon as the plane levelled off and everyone started either speaking or watching programmes on their screens. Dele being no better, playing a game that looked like Tetris. Pretty old school, with lines changing colours as the space cleared, Dele’s thumbs lightning quick as he tapped at the buttons on the LCD screen.

“Hmm?”

“We got three points,” Eric said weakly, shaking his head at himself in disgust. 

“We could’ve done better, true,” Dele agreed, “we should have had a goal in the first two minutes of the game. But we didn’t. The next team-”

“Yeah, we’ll deal with that when we get there, listen -” Eric pushed down the partition between their seats to get closer to Dele. His fingers on Dele’s forearm, feeling not a little smug when Dele’s thumbs stopped tapping at the screen of the phone. Only for the smugness to become a strange nervousness when Dele sank into the backrest of his chair, meeting Eric’s gaze with his own, and Eric found himself stammering and flushing. 

“T-this mightn’t be the b-best time-”

Dele made a great show of looking around their surroundings before resuming his place in the comfy airline seat, sending Eric a pointed look. Everyone else either speaking to each other, Defoe laughing with Studge and Sterling up front, or the quieter ones watching movies on their computers, their oversized headphones an insulation against the noises around them. 

It wasn’t as if they were going to discuss the triggers of Poch’s press or the secrets of the Five Eyes alliance. 

“I was wrong to call Walks a traitor.”

“It was _bantz_ ,” Dele rolled his eyes. “Honestly, Eric.”

“Just let me speak, yeah? Then you can take the piss out of me at your leisure.”

Dele nodded, mollified by the thought of piss-taking with extreme malice. 

“Do you remember Gareth Bale?”

“That was even before _your_ time, I think, old man.”

Eric waved that away, curling his body nearer to Dele’s, his voice in hushed tones, because he didn’t want it to carry. 

“It’s neither here nor there. The point is, I remember reading something about him leaving Spurs for Real Madrid because he wanted to win things, and he knew he couldn’t with Wales, so this was the way of it, and that’s why he went there. I mean...” he paused, “I want to win things,” he confessed, his voice breaking. “I love the team and the gaffer but - we might have missed our chance.”

Somehow, saying it aloud seemed spiteful and cruel. Eric would have done better to keep it quiet and go along to get along, but Dele wasn’t a person you wanted to lie to. “I don’t know if we’ll get another," he admitted, giving voice to the unthinkable. " Walks might have done the best thing in leaving.”

Unable to look at Dele any longer, his gaze dropped to his lap, his eyes prickling with unshed tears. 

“I don’t just want to be _here_ , not here as in Spurs but here as in football, you know what I mean. I want to -” his voice broke. 

Eric heard Dele’s soft exhalation of breath. They’d never spoken about this - at least not directly. For the past two seasons, under Pochettino, they went from a respectable fifth place into flying towards the sun, and getting burned each time, falling away when they came so close. 

He rubbed at his nose with the sleeve of his team jacket, because the plane was cold, and it irritated his nose, yeah. Eric thisclose to believing it until Dele’s fingers threaded through his, their foreheads touching each other, making him feel a little bit warmer. 

“Yeah,” Dele said. “I understand, and you wouldn’t have been a traitor for leaving, Eric. I’d have missed you terribly, but not-”

Eric tried to breathe through the tightness in his chest, hoping the noise didn’t sound suspiciously like a sob. “Y- you said... you’d have been jealous.”

“Yeah,” Dele’s voice a matter of fact. “I’m jealous of _achievements_. I’m greedy for my own, but not jealous in the way you think. I mean, it’s _you_ , you know.”

“You look at Rashford and what’s he’s already gotten - in Mourinho’s first year.”

“I know, right?” Dele let Eric’s hand go, and before Eric had the chance to wonder why, he felt Dele gathering him close as much as a cramped airline seat allowed, Dele’s scent tickling his nose, his mouth at the shell of his ear. “I don’t know what you want to do, Eric.”

“I want to win something this year,” Eric swallowed heavily. “If we don’t, if we can’t -”

“I understand.”

Eric pressed his face into the hinge between Dele's shoulder and neck, simultaneously too numb and too filled with emotion to cry. 

“Don’t hate me,” he whispered, mindful of the noise levels in the plane. 

“I won’t. Not for this, anyway.” 

“Hey,” and this was the voice of Harry, disembodied, floating around Eric’s ears. “Is Dierwolf okay?”

“Sinus issues,” Dele lied easily, his thumb stroking the curve of Eric's shoulder, the movement soothing Eric's jangled nerves. “Normally he’s quite good on planes, but I guess the heat, then the cold, and the pressure...”

“Yeah, well,” Harry said, and Eric felt his scrub of hair being ruffled, then smoothed. “Take care of him, eh? He’s back on the team having served his match ban, we need him.”

“You’re all heart, H,” Dele laughed. “If you want to do something useful, get us another brace, won’t you? Now that August is over?”

“Tosser,” Harry said affectionately. “I’ll leave you two to it, eh? Do you need me to ask the staff for anything?”

“No, we got it all covered.”

***

By the time they landed in London, the air cooler on his face, Eric recovered his composure; his face not so sticky, his mood calmer. Given that their next match was at Wembley, the FA arranged lodgings at a hotel in the capital, near to Tottenham Hotspur.

Wheeling their carry ons, everyone drifted into their own rooms, most of them on the same floor, and Eric plodded along towards his room, body feeling as if it weren’t his as if he had a new recruit piloting his form. His legs jerky, his shoulders slumped and heavy. 

“Eric, a word?”

Eric stopped, closing his eyes for a minute at the voice calling him. Willed himself to turn around and fix his features into something pleasant. 

The owner of the voice being Gareth Southgate, his eyes narrowing at Eric, before Eric had a chance to swipe his room card and slip inside. 

Eric had caught a glimpse of himself in the mirrored walls of the elevator, taken aback at how whey faced he had looked. 

“Are you okay?” Southgate asked, face sketched into concern with frown lines and his mouth strained at the edges. “I heard you were poorly on the plane.”

“Erm,” Eric began, because Dele and Harry had done their part _too_ well. He fell on Dele’s excuse. Hard. “It’s just sinuses.”

“You’ve had that before?”

“Rarely, it just- pops up at the oddest times,” Eric rubbed at his face. “I’ll be fine tomorrow, promise.”

“If you’re not,” Southgate worried at his bottom lip with his teeth, rocking back on his heels, his hands on his hips. “You’ll tell me, won’t you? I’m not going to hold it against you in future team call ups, you know that.”

“I know,” Eric admitted. 

Southgate and himself had history, most of it good. Eric begged off being called up to U21s two seasons ago because he’d wanted to work with Pochettino, and Southgate respected that, even when the tabloids were hinting at Eric being a _refusenik_. “I promise.” 

“All right,” Southgate glanced at his watch. Somehow, between leaving for Malta and getting here, it ended up being early evening. “I’ll let you go. Normally, I’d like us to eat dinner together, but you’re excused. If you need anything, don’t stand on ceremony, ask.”

Before Eric could even say thank you, Southgate turned on his heel and stepped away, leaving Eric to let himself into his room. 

As soon as Eric closed the door, he leaned against it for a bit. His wheelie carry-on toppled to the ground with a clatter. The hotel room clean, with walls of a warm peach tint. 

He should bathe, wash off the travel and the jitters, but not now, not now. 

Eric did a short shuffle before throwing himself onto the bed. The bed covers cool, the pillow cases smooth and chilled against his cheek. The events of the weekend scrolling in front of his eyes like a movie he didn’t care to watch again, but too exhausted to shut it off. 

Dele’s comments sticking out at him in odd moments, _I listen more than you think_. Eric didn’t put it past him, rubbing his nose, and God. 

It was okay, it will be okay.

He never dreamt that he’d have come this far, within touching distance of where he wanted to go, where he needed to be. 

_Don’t hate me._

_I won’t. Not for this, anyway._

Pulling the pillow against him, bringing his knees to his chest, Eric let out a sob. Big, heaving ones followed, forcing Eric to bury his face in the pillow so no one would hear him fall to pieces. 

Tightening his fingers into the pillow, as the mist cleared, he made a promise to himself. This season, he’d do all he could, whatever he could. He’d try and win something - anything. 

At the end of this season, he’d make a decision. 

His phone hummed against his leg. Feeling groggy, he pulled it out of the pocket of his jogging bottoms, scrolling through messages sent by everyone he knew. Word of his sinuses zoomed around the camp like the speed of a dank meme on the internet, and the messages came in, most of them gregarious and warm via the football Whatsapp group. 

Dele sent his own Whatsapp message directly. 

_One more chance, yeah? NO matter what happens this yr it will be enuff._

*prayer emoji*

Wiping at his flushed cheeks, Eric hiccoughed a laugh, which set off the second round of sobs. Quieter ones this time, and he rubbed at his chest with the heel of his hand, embracing the pain of _everything_ , because somehow, Dele’s message made it easier to bear. 

He highlighted the message of the text, with a message of his own. 

His finger hovered over the emoticon he’d chosen, but it didn’t matter now, did it? 

The countdown had already started. 

Decision made, he sent his answer. Dele might listen more than Eric thought, but Dele tended to dismiss the written word, and because of that, Eric decided to take the risk. 

_Yeah, it will be enough._

*pumping heart emoji*

Finger hovered over the button for fraction of a second. 

Pressed the green icon to send. 

 

Fin.

**Author's Note:**

>   * To fulfill a prompt for the lovely matrioskaaa. "Maybe I listen more than you think". The title of the fic is from the song of the same name by The National
>   * Thank you to itsadrizzit for giving this a once over and fact check. You did this in such a short space of time. Thank you so much. 
>   * Normally I give notes re: the background of the piece, but the fic will have to fend for itself today. Thank you for understanding. 
> 



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